Kickin' It on the South Side

We spent a lovely, family-filled weekend in Provence, attending N’s aunt’s wedding in Aix and otherwise kicking in Marseille with N’s sis and other relatives (N, his sister, and cousins are pictured). It was great meeting N’s extended family, spanning multiple generations including the newest bevy of babies. Everyone was super welcoming and excited to hear all about our first six months in Paris.

The weekend also put some things into perspective and opened my eyes to some aspects French culture beyond Paris. A hodge-podge of observations:

- This trip gave me a prime opportunity to flex my language skills. My French has progressed quite a bit, as many of N’s family members remarked (nice props!). Indeed, from their perspectives it’s true, as the last time they saw me (in ’02) I knew 10, maybe 20 words of French and couldn’t string a sentence together for the life of me. However, I discovered that my small talk skills are still spotty. I can hang in a one-on-one conversation (up to a certain point of course), but in a larger group it’s easy to get lost amid all the rapid chatter. By the time I’m able to interject a comment, the conversation has progressed beyond the point of its relevance. Oh well, still advancing every day.

- People in the south of France are waaaaaaaaaaay more laid-back and friendly than Parisians, although I knew this already. I bumped into people in the jam-packed pedestrian streets of Aix several times, and they actually smiled and said excuse me. Imagine that!

- French outdoor markets are next-level, another fact I already knew, but had time to appreciate in spades during this visit. The Marché d’Aix is especially wonderful, sprawling across multiple sections of the city and divided into sectors (the flower sector, the produce sector, the knick-knacks and antiques sector, the jewelry and crafts sector…). We bought a handful of delicious soaps, which are a regional specialty.

- Aix is a charmer of a city, while Marseille is a bit grittier. Granted, I didn’t get a chance to see too much of it what with the wedding and other family get-togethers, but there’s a lot of graffiti on all manner of building faces and some areas are in disrepair. However, the grittiness gives way to an ethnic, artsy edge in certain neighborhoods, a funkiness reminiscent of the Lower East Side and Alphabet City (minus the gentrification of the past decade or so). So I dug that, and look forward to returning so I can explore the city a bit more. Another difference between these two southern cities is that you'll find far more Anglo tourists in Aix than in Marseille. Walking through Aix, we heard snippets of English every now and again, while none was to be heard in the southern port city - a fact that made our discovery of the pictured sign all the more curious.

- The French – particularly the women – get wild on the dance floor! It was a hoot to watch a circle of women of all ages tearing it up at the wedding. Even the rabbi was getting D-O-W-N, lifting ladies into the air. Maybe he was jonesing for some height on the dance floor since the hora was limited to keeping everyone’s feet on the ground – the ceiling was too low for the customary chair-hoisting fun.

- Speaking of the rabbi, he was a riot. After an hour-long sermon during the ceremony full of lengthy anecdotes and jokes that seemed to make himself laugh as much as the audience, we knew he was a character. But then he approached me on the dance floor and after chatting me up for a while, he pulled N in starting performing little magic tricks (making his business card disappear and then pulling it out from behind N’s ear). It was all a warm-up to start pestering us about starting a family: (in thick French accent, with a hint of NY Jew) “you’ve been married four years and no kids? SO??!!” A perfect mix of Gob Bluth and my Jewish grandma.

- I’m not sure if this is a tradition, but I’ve been to two weddings in France at this point and both have featured a dessert cart minus the customary wedding cake but featuring multiple sparklers planted in the towers of sweets. Ooh, so pretty!

So yes, good times were had and I’m looking forward to the next visit when I can explore more of the region and get to know the family on an even deeper level (both in terms of quality time and in terms of improved communication).

President Bling-Bling's Latest Stir

To describe French President Nicolas Sarkozy as controversial would be a vast understatement. His narrow victory last spring may have provided evidence that the French are (somewhat) ready to embrace change, but it’s been a slippery slope since his inauguration. People do not care for his professed love of America, his flashy Rolex and extravagant lifestyle (he’s been dubbed “President Bling-Bling”), and (more understandably) his nearly daily spotlight hogging in the media. As many of my students have expressed (regardless of whom they voted for), in France, the President is usually heard but not seen, and this president is all about the latter.

After causing a stir in the fall with reform proposals (you may have heard about the insane 9-day Metro strike – one of the many backlashes against said reforms), Sarko upped the ante with his volatile love life. His ex-wife’s affair came to light during the campaign (some conspiracy theorists say it was all cleverly timed to gain voter sympathy) and only a couple months after he took office, Cecelia Sarkozy abandoned her husband and her short-lived post as France’s First Lady – no big loss for her, as she has been quoted on the record as saying it’s a “stupid job.”

Sarko then squandered the sympathies of female voters everywhere and gained the meat-headed admiration of hetero men worldwide when he, within the span of roughly two months, courted, allegedly impregnated (emphasis on alleged--she isn't preggo), and then quietly married Franco-Italian supermodel-musician-actress Carla Bruni, who has been photographed in the nude and has gone on record saying she prefers the Italians because they’re not negative like the French (see, it’s not just me!). His approval rating is currently hovering around 40% - getting down into Dubya territory.

The Bruni-Sarko media circus has served as a fabulous distraction from the Prez’s political maneuvers. His economic advisor served up a 300-item list of improvements to be made to stimulate France’s economy (including integrating economics instruction into grade-school curriculum, simplifying the administration-heavy local government system, and deregulating various industries). This resulted in a lot of cynical grumbling and a taxi strike or two, and no doubt will incite further protest down the road.

The latest controversy is quite interesting. Sarkozy is now apparently an educator. In short, he has mandated that every 10-year-old student in France will read a biography of a same-aged French Holocaust victim. I understand the intention, as a Jew and an educator who believes in using such historical connections to help foster empathy and compassion in students – logic that can hardly be faulted, unless it’s focused on 10-year-old kids. Is the shock value of the horrendous realities of the Holocaust too traumatic for a child of this age, even in today’s world? There are intelligent arguments on both sides of the issue. But I’m still left scratching my head. This initiative seems to have come out of nowhere. Why the Holocuast? In a country of burgeoning anti-Semitism, it’s clearly beneficial to spread awareness of what some people flat-out deny existed…but why now? And why is this initiative so specific? It's one thing for a high-profile government official to call for mandatory Holocaust curriculum in public schools, and another for the President to outline a particular grade-level project - and without consulting the department of education to conceptualize it. Huh? My students are divided and the cynics/conspirators among them thing it’s another of Sarko’s ploys to cast himself in a good light, to curry public favor. But as well-intentioned as it may be, to the outside observer, it just seems so random.

So what do you think of this latest initiative? Is it appropriate for upper elementary curriculum? Post in the comments.

Where Have All the Happy BART Riders Gone?

My blog has been mostly upbeat thus far, but after nearly six months of living here, it’s finally time to succumb to what seems to be a national epidemic – complaining. In all honesty, I don’t have much (if anything) to complain about, but there I go, thinking like the stereotypical “positive American.” (My students tell me that I am one of these, said with an air of incredulity as if they’ve just encountered some mythical being in the flesh. They can’t comprehend how anyone could be so sunny in disposition while not on her fourth vacation of the year.) But here’s the dirty truth: while I am a fairly positive person, there’s one aspect of my daily life that can drive me perilously close to the edge. As James Taylor famously said on The Simpsons, I’m not as laid-back as people think.

You see, I have to contend with the Metro and RER (high-speed commuter train) not only every workday, but also sometimes several times within a workday in order to travel from client to client. And while I love the local public transportation system in and of itself, I absolutely can’t stand the way people behave on it. As the French would say, c’est insupportable. Observe.

In San Francisco, people gently queue up single-file to wait for the BART, and then observe the law of waiting one’s turn to get on board. Yeah, SF may be a utopian paragon of public behavior, but even NYC commuters (and I’m well acquainted) are not as bad as Parisians. When getting onto a train car here, people just do not give disembarking passengers a chance in hell. Sure, some people politely wait off to the side, but many more stampede onto the car right into the flow of disembarking traffic, not even stepping out of the way. Maybe this is why people preparing to disembark at the upcoming stop feel the need to rush at the doors before the train has even pulled into the station. The rest of us get jostled around quite a bit, with no pardon’s, excuse-moi’s, nothing.

The RER is even worse than the Metro. People who are towards the back of the embarking mass feel the need to push the crowd onto the train to ensure they, too, get on. And I mean, aggressively push. And nobody bitches about it, which is the weird thing. I get my glare on, not like that changes a thing – especially not the time I almost got (accidentally) shoved down a flight of stairs within the RER train by a swell of people pushing their way inside.

Sometimes it’s comical. The pushers push just close enough to get one foot onto the uber-packed train car, with the rest of their bodies hanging off the train but ready to smoosh into the crowd on board at the last minute. It’s so delusional. Why bother? One time I blurted out, “Are you fucking kidding me?” when observing not one, but three people trying to do this—they would’ve catapulted right into me. I think my outburst startled them just enough - even if they didn't understand it - to make them lose their nerve. Ha. I win. Psycho commuters, you lose.

I don’t get it. It’s not like we’re in some Indiana Jones movie and the stone wall of doom is being rapidly lowered to seal us into a chamber of scorpions. We all have more than enough time to go about our business in a civilized, timely manner before the train doors automatically close. And the next train is coming 3-5 minutes later!!! So why the man-eat-man antics?

Something else I always love is walking onto a semi-crowded train to find some guy leaning up against the pole in the center of the train car, basically taking up all the real estate that could be used for at least half a dozen hands to grab onto. But no, he has to keep on leaning and then gets all self-righteously indignant if the person adjacent (who, by the way, has NOTHING to hold onto and can therefore only rely on her former yoga practice to help manage her balance on the constantly swerving train—I mean, it can be a fun game except for when she) very slightly bumps into him. And although I’m sure it sounds like it, I’m not talking about an isolated incident, people.

The survival-of-the-fittest phenomenon doesn’t only have to occur on the train, my friends. There’s also a world of adventure inside the station! Parisians will shamelessly cut you in your bid to get on a crowded escalator. Not just merge-style cutting, which is pretty harmless—I’m talking about rushing up to the front of the line, lunging in front of you, overt ops cutting. Just the other day I’d had enough of the cutting and didn’t let this chick have her way in the line. It might’ve been an accident, but right after she got onto the escalator right behind me, her heavy laptop bag just happened to swing right into my calves. Seriously?! (The cutting is not limited to underground escalators. I’ve seen people try to cut even on shorter lines at a handful of places, such as the bakery. Will the extra minute or two of waiting really kill you?)

And then, my favorite move of all: people will stop short, either right at the base of the escalator or right at the top, blocking everyone behind them and consequently creating a pile-up. Why choose this precise moment to stop moving? Is there not a ginormous line of people behind you? You know, the line that you just cut to get on the escalator? Unbelievable how all that cut-throat cunning suddenly gives way to total obliviousness.

Pfew. OK, breathe, breathe, it's gonna be OK. Go to your happy place!

Clearly, I can get worked up about this--when taken in isolation, these incidents are slight annoyances at worst, but they have a way of adding up when you ride public transport as much as I do. So there, I vented like the best of the French complainers and now I can go back to being happy and light and fluffy and laid-back with unicorns and rainbows and pixie dust and all that weird, icky “positive American” stuff. Speaking of stereotypes, someone once told me that the French are impatient. I think I believe that one now.

The King of Desserts

I thought it was some kind of conspiracy. Come January, they were everywhere you looked: the unassumingly plain-looking, round, flat, flaky-pastry cakes in various sizes piled high in every bakery window. And then there were the ads for cider plastered in every Metro station and bus stop, proudly claiming to be the best pairing for the galette du roi. The cake of kings? What the hell is that? It wasn’t until a couple weeks into January that I put two and two together. It’s no conspiracy, but an age-old New Year tradition built on (what else?) chivalry, dessert, and booze.

Right around the time it dawned on me that the galette and cidre are this country’s seasonal answer to milk and cookies, we had some of N’s French colleagues over one afternoon and they very sweetly brought a galette du roi. They also further illuminated me on the annual ritual.

The scoop on the cake: this confection is akin to an almond croissant, albeit in a different format. The crust is comprised of very flaky pastry, baked to a golden brown and sometimes embossed with a leaf pattern but usually very plain on top. The yummy innards are made of a surprisingly not-nauseatingly-sweet (meaning, fabulously good) almond paste. Although very simple and rustic compared to the chic-chic pastries you can normally get in most Parisian boulangeries, the galette is divine in its simplicity and even better when slightly heated. Oh, and the best part? There’s a little prize toy hidden inside. This strangely tends to be a tiny, plastic farm animal. Still not clear on the reasoning for that...Anyhow, see the diminituve plastic cow pictured. (Upon discovering it, the winner of our first-ever French Crackerjack prize exclaimed, "Ooh, it's a veal!" Heh.)

The toy-winning proceedings: determine who the oldest and the youngest people in the room are. The youngest hides under the table, while the oldest cuts and dishes out slices of the galette—but not before the youngest, unable to see what the slices look like, barks out to whom the slice should be given. This keeps the game honest—the person deciding who gets which slice cannot see and therefore cannot guess where the toy is hidden. Anyhow, everyone starts a-noshin’ until someone bites into something solid, hopefully doesn’t chip a tooth in the process, and declares him or herself the king!

It comes with props only the dominant male hierarchy could love: the king then dons the definitively non-dainty golden cardboard crown (move over, crappy non-metallic Burger King topper) and can choose his queen. Yes, this is a dated ritual and has not been updated for political correctness. Remember, this isn’t the U.S. The entire language is genderized. (Don’t even get me started on the arbitrariness and weirdness of calling a table ‘she’ and a telephone number ‘he’ - not to mention the designations make. absolutely. no. sense.)

Oh, and regarding the cider, yes, it’s traditional to drink it with the galette, yes, it’s sparkling apple cider, and yes it’s alcoholic, but just barely.

Needless to say, it was love at first bite and we were thrilled when on another January weekend, dinner guests brought over a galette. We also initiated my dad to this sugary ritual when he visited in January. And as soon as the month ended, there was nary a galette du roi in sight.

You’d think in February, we’d be witness to a chocolate heart explosion, but the French—despite being the eternal champions of l’amour—don’t exploit Valentine’s Day for all its chocolatey promise. Chocolate is a year-round cause for celebration in France, bien sur!

My Latest Accomplishment

After some time away from blogging, I’m back with the latest installment of my carte de séjour saga. You may remember my posts from months hence, detailing the trials of navigating this horrendously bureaucratic process. Those light-hearted, playfully sarcastic missives were spawned from a more fresh-faced, wide-eyed, innocent (or dare I say, naïve) version of my expat self. My experiences with this process have since turned me into a hardened, cynical (or dare I say, more begrudgingly realistic) woman, one who’s resigned to a potential fate of always missing one document and thus forced to return to the Prefecture every three months – my imagined “Groundhog’s Day”-esque personal version of hell. Overly dramatic? Maybe. Entirely warranted in this country? Yes.

We arrived at the Préfecture at the appointed time of 8:45am with my hefty folder containing every darn official paper the French government deems necessary for the residency process, including copies of both our passports, proof of our marriage translated into French, a bank statement in my name (thank gawd we were able to clear that issue up in a timely five-month manner), my lease, a letter proving I am currently awaiting my French social security number, and our 2006 tax documents. That’s all!

We got on the queue winding practically around the corner from the building entrance and slowly but surely inched our way into the building, where upon entering had to go through “security” – a bag x-ray contraption of the airport variety, except the two guys appointed to the demanding task of watching the items passing through on the screen had their backs turned to the monitor and were busy chatting about weekend plans and showing each other pictures stored in their cell phones. Good thing I smuggled in all that contraband.

Then we went to the dreaded room where dreams are crushed and fates are sealed: the Foreigner Services Department, Americas Region, the French government’s equivalent to the Pit of Sarlac (that was for all you Star Wars geeks), the dominion of my favorite fonctionnaire to date, La Vache Bête, the woman who was painfully malicious on our last visit. We took a number and I said a silent prayer that we wouldn’t be called to her window. After a surprisingly short beat, we were called to the window neighboring hers. Pfew.

On my previous visit, I had only advanced my French skills so far and I’d had food poisoning the day before, so I’d been in no condition to parler français bien. This time, Nate and I equally vowed to only revert to English when absolutely necessary. My initial attempts to speak French seemed to sit well with the lady handling us, but we reached a hurdle when she asked for my dossier. What dossier? You don’t mean the bulging folder of documents I’ve plopped onto your table? No, the dossier this department has prepared. You should’ve received it when the receptionist clocked you in and gave you your number. Go back to the waiting area while we locate it. Great.

15 minutes can be excruciatingly long when you’re tired, not in the least happy to be where you are, and assaulted by a TV screen blaring the French infomercial channel, which you (of course) must pay for the privilege of calling to enquire about the godawful products advertised. After watching some guy shill a parade of tacky Cuisinart-like devices, we were called back.

I started presenting my documents. Of course, one was wrong (because it was so clearly described in the first place), but miraculously, “c’est pas grave” (it’s not serious). What follows is a long period of the fonctionnaire examining the documents and hand-writing some details in my dossier. At one point, La Vache Bête peers over and seemingly recognizes us. We politely smile and say hello through slightly gritted teeth, but she’s surprisingly nice and starts making small talk. She grumbles (like the last time we saw her) that she’s annoyed to be at work and it’s Friday, but still barely 9:00. Nate takes this cue to launch into a long complaint about his workweek (which, admittedly, was not a cakewalk what with two days of unnecessary training, a one-day business trip to Montpelier, and now this). It works like magic, as she’s nodding sympathetically and making comments of solidarity. Nate has broken the barrier by speaking her language, the lingua franca of bitching and moaning. I proceed to win the ladies over by dramatically rolling my eyes and saying teasingly, “Ah, c’est dure, c’est très dure “ (Oh, it’s tough, it’s so tough). Even though I’m not speaking in complainy code, they like the marital theatrics.

Eventually the fonctionnaire is satisfied and has drained all the ink in her pen writing in my file. However, it’s not over yet. I have to go to a different building in the complex to make my requisite medical exam appointment, which consists of a series of medical questions and an x-ray (in case, you know, Jimmy Hoffa or America’s secret Iraq strategy is hidden in my rib cage). I schedule my appointment and get a brochure about the government services provided to naturalized residents. I am “entitled” to (more like required to commit to): an opportunity to attend a collective meeting to welcome newcomers (I’m not much of a newcomer after nearly six months of living here, but OK), an individual interview to assess my level of French (hmm), a day of civic training to present the fundamental rights, principles, and values of the French Republic (let the propaganda begin), and information session on life in France (but will it be snarky?), and if I cannot speak French, a language training course adapted to my needs (that would pretty darn cool, if not for…) culminating in the examination to obtain the initial diploma in French. Ending in this friendly warning label: “If you do not respect your commitments, the préfet could terminate your contract, refuse to renew your residence permit or to issue a residence card.” Jeez. I haven’t heard anything about this.

Anyhow, I returned to the Americas Region office to make a copy of my medical appointment slip and turn it in, so it could be added to my bulging dossier. I have to go back one last time after the medical exam, at my leisure (no appointment = spending half the day waiting to get seen, probably) to finally receive my resident permit. But I can’t do this right after the medical exam. No, I have to wait at least one additional month after then for reasons that are unclear. Well, I won’t question it. All I know is, I’m two months away from getting the damn card, at last!

And so ends the latest chapter. I’m happy to report that the steely pessimism I’d cultivated all this time was for naught. Now that I’ve passed the most annoying and time-consuming of obstacles, a weight has been lifted. Or maybe not. Gotta figure out this language exam situation…although I can probably pass with flying colors if I demonstrate fluency in the lingua franca of complaining.